“The theatre? With a stage and a curtain?” Oliver’s normally reserved demeanor was replaced with unadulterated joy as he leapt up from his book.
The boy looked from Isla to his father, his eyes shining. “Papa, may I truly go with you both?”
Benedict, who was reading the evening paper by the fire after a simple supper for just the three of them, lowered it slightly, revealing only his eyes. “Since Her Grace seems intent on indulging you, yes, Oliver. You may truly go. Try to behave.”
Oliver rushed forward and hugged his father’s knee. “Thank you, Papa! I will behave perfectly, you will see! Thank you, Isla!”
With one last embrace, Oliver went back over to his book and began looking through the pages. His smile had stretched across his face as he occasionally looked up from his reading to his father.
“He is quite enthused. I… am glad to see him that way,” he admitted, his voice low as he absently ruffled his son’s hair.
“Then it is worth a hundred pantomimes,” Isla replied simply.
“Perhaps…” the Duke said as he lifted his newspaper back up. “Well done, Duchess.”
“Look, Isla! Look at all the people!” Oliver whispered, utterly transfixed by the scene. “It is just like I imagined in my dream last night!”
The following evening, the Duke and Duchess of Ealdwick arrived at the King’s Theatre in Covent Garden with young Oliver. The family was instantly ushered into a lavish privatebox overlooking stage left. Oliver was dressed smartly in a blue velvet coat, his sometimes-messy hair pulled back perfectly like Little Lord Fauntleroy. He pressed himself to the velvet railing, his face alight as the chandeliers were raised and the vast, crimson curtain shimmered, waiting to open and unfold the scene.
Isla wore a deep red gown that fitted her perfectly at the bodice and puffed out in a full skirt. She had paired it with long, white gloves and sparkling diamond earrings. Her hair was pulled up in an elegant chignon, her dark blonde locks falling in two pieces to frame her face.
She stood next to him, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. “Aye,mo chridhe. It is quite the spectacle, is it nae? I remember me first time seein’ such a sight, and I was much older than ye are now.”
“I am so lucky!” Oliver screeched as he grabbed her hand. “Can we take our seats? Will it be starting soon?”
“Oh aye, let us take these two up front,” Isla said as she patted the seat of the chair.
The lush private box had six padded seats in two rows, with a deep burgundy carpet and dark walls with black curtains. There was a small table on either side for refreshments to be set.
Benedict silently took a seat in the middle of the row behind them. When Isla settled into the plush chair, also in the middle, she realized how close he was. She felt his breath hot on the backof her neck, making her skin prickle. The confines of the box were intimate, the darkness surrounding them a stark contrast to the brilliant, noisy stage below. It felt as if it were a dream.
She took a hand and ran it up and down her neck, her gloved fingers tracing the curls at the nape of her neck.
I can feel him breathin’ harder now…
The music suddenly swelled, and the curtain rose on a scene of painted mountains. The sky was as blue as a robin’s egg, the green of the mountains as rich as an emerald. Isla smiled to herself as they were blatantly and charmingly Scottish.
Home.
Oliver let out a delighted gasp as the actors made their entrances. He turned to Isla, his excitement bubbling over, and began to lean on her arm, his focus entirely on the stage.
“It is where you are from, Isla!” he whispered to her, and she patted his arm. “The Highlands!”
Benedict was leaning forward slightly, his elbow resting on the padded back of Isla’s chair. As he reached to adjust the positioning of his seat by putting his hand on her chair, he brushed the delicate skin of her neck again, a tease that sent a jolt straight through her as if lightning. He let his fingers linger for a moment, taking a small lock of hair and twirling it in hisfingers. He leaned forward more, his breath hotter still on her neck.
The contact was instantaneous, electric. And thankfully, completely hidden from Oliver, who was laughing loudly at a harlequin on stage.
Isla tried to shift away from his touch, if only to steady herself, but the box was too small. The subtle scent of Benedict’s cologne, that familiar, expensive scent of sandalwood and crisp air, was overwhelming in the enclosed space. She was enveloped by him.
Is this room shrinkin’ or am I losin’ me mind?
She arched her back and turned slightly, risking a glance at him.
Benedict was not watching the stage.
His gaze was fixed on the graceful curve of her neck and exposed shoulders in her exquisite evening gown. She watched his eyes drop to her mouth. He was utterly still, his jaw relaxed, his usual severity softened by the dim, warm light of the stage below. And then, he did the most peculiar thing of all.
He smiled.
